


Waltz among the Yew Tree Walls

by Wallissa



Series: Ineffable Week [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Daydreaming, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Renaissance Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 21:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20607539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: While wandering through a maze with a noblewoman to be tempted, Crowley catches glimpses of a familiar face. Between the yew tree walls, Crowley and Aziraphale stumble upon each other. Whispers among dripping roses, marble and unsaid words, fortunate accidents.Ineffable Week, Wednesday - a meeting by chanceor a planned date





	Waltz among the Yew Tree Walls

The scent of a yew tree is almost nontraceable to humans, but it tickles Crowley’s senses when he licks wine from his lips. It’s the early afternoon, his fingers are still a little sticky from the peaches they had after lunch and he’s letting Isabella Fonte lead him through the bumblebee-haze of her garden.

He’s been waiting for an opportunity like this for a while. Getting the lady by herself was no easy task and he had to go through the humiliation of changing looks twice already. Thankfully, a foreign ambassador is doing the trick, he was running out of ideas.

Now, with the signora safely by his side, he’ll only have to suggest a new collection of modern art and the whole city will be in a marvellous pickle two or three years from now. _And_ the new art movement will have the opportunity to grow, so really, everyone wins. Maybe he should suggest some names. He _does_ love Parmigianino.

“You seem quiet today. The heat isn’t affecting you, I hope?” The pearls woven into her dark hair shimmer under her veil when Isabella tilts her head to look at him.

“Oh, not at all. I was just taken by the garden. I’ve always loved gardens, you see. Especially ones with fruit trees.”

Isabella’s fingertips keep finding the keychain wrapped around her waist, gold slipping through the perfumed white of her gloves. He can see her grip tighten a little as she smiles. “I’ll show you the orange trees later, then. But first – would you like to see the maze? It’s much cooler there.” She regards the black velvet of his vest with a little look, her lashes brushing her veil. “And much quieter.”

_Perfect._ “If you’d be so kind? I’d be delighted.”

They pass a collection of other guests and friends of the family. Bathed in the heat of the early afternoon, they chatter as they follow the paths of the sun-drenched garden. Isabella, however, stops for none of them. 

As soon as they step into the maze, the coolness of the yew tree walls washes over them. There’s the distant sound of a fountain coming from somewhere inside the maze, mixing with the song of the few birds that can stand the heat. With every step, Isabella’s dress rustles, metres of draped lace and gold.

She lets him choose the way and he leads them into the green corridors, right and left and right again, until the chatter of the outside world has quieted down. His fingertips brush the walls, the branches tickling him in return.

“What do you think?”

Crowley smiles. “Oh, it’s exquisite. Refreshing, calm. I was-“

“Oh, left then, this time.”

Crowley stops in his tracks. Th voice sends a jolt through him. He turns, but catches sight only of the heel of a shoe and only for barely a second. And yet-

Isabella leans in with a little frown, her hand on his chest, his fluttering heart. “My friend?”

No. It can’t be, can it? The world spins a little with how his heart is pounding. Crowley looks back into the half-shadow of Isabella’s face. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d heard a voice. The heat must’ve gotten to me after all.”

She tilts her head, listening to the maze like a bird. “You might have heard something. My husband’s secretary asked to talk to him after lunch. They might’ve had the same idea we’ve had.”

“In that case –“ Oh, his heart is fluttering still – “We ought to –“ He swallows. “Ought to keep a polite distance as to not interrupt them?”

Isabella’s smile is a flash in the half-shadow of lace. “Yes, we ought to.”

They continue their little stroll, but now Crowley is distracted by every snapping branch, every breath of air that tickles the hedges. The maze seems alive with temptations, and for once, he’s the one distracted by it.

And then, when they cross another path, he glances to the right just in time. A few metres from them, Federico Fonte is crossing the same path and next to him – Aziraphale’s eyes widen when he sees him and Crowley has just enough time to smile at him, then they’ve passed each other in opposite directions.

Oh, it’s _him_. Gold and cream and white, cotton and silk and lace.

The sky opens, light spills on the path in front of them, drawing golden lines on yew needles. Which reminds Crowley – “With a garden as beautiful as this one, you surely find yourself drawn to art as well?”

“Art?” The chain slips through Isabella’s fingers. “Well, sure. It certainly is nice to look at.”

They come to a clearing, in the middle of which stands a pedestal. A marble faun balances on top of it, frozen in dance as he plays the flute. As they round it – the artist added a little tail, Crowley loves such attention to detail – Isabella tries to steer them towards a path opposite of the one they came through. Crowley, however, licks his lips, tastes powdered sugar and feathery delight and takes the path left to the one they entered through.

“We’ll be going in circles, my friend.”

“If we knew from the start where we’d end up, it would be a labyrinth, wouldn’t it? But you promised me a maze. Let us get lost and wait what we find along the way.” Crowley offers a smile.

“Oh, you make it sound tempting.” Isabella’s golden chain glimmers in the green light.

Crowley’s smile widens. “I would hope so.”

The walls rustle as they walk past, the air is filled with specks of light. Under their feet, the grass is soft and cool.

When they round a corner, the scent of roses fills the air. Crowley feels a spark in his fingertips.

Filled to the brim with glittering anticipation, he leads Isabella towards the scent, licking his lips.

“Oh, my dear friend, not so fast, please,” she says, but they already stepped into another clearing. There’s the distant gurgle of a fountain, but Crowley doesn’t try to spot it.

Aziraphale turns and the light kisses his cheek, his forehead, the curve of his smile. His eyes are oh, so very kind and set on Crowley, like he’s – 

“Isabella!” Federico has risen from the marble bench he’d been sitting on and goes to greet his wife, pleasant surprise melted into his smile. He leans in to kiss her fingertips, her gloved hand very white against his hand, then his vest. Her smile shimmers behind her veil.

“You should have told me that you wished to go to the maze.” His voice is warm and soft, barely loud enough to be overheard. Crowley tilts his head a little, sneaking a glance at Aziraphale.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with Signore –“

“Aziraphale.” Here, Aziraphale gives a polite little bow. Oh, his grace really is unmatched. Isabella nods, turns back to her husband, whose gaze is roses and tangerines. 

“You mustn’t think like that. I would have postponed this conversation.”

There’s a pause. Her smile is soft and warm, a gentle caress, while her hand flutters over the material of his sleeves. Crowley looks up to find Aziraphale’s eyes on him, soft and warm. For a moment, the air is buzzing with unsaid words.

Finally, Isabella is the one to move, a little smile hidden behind her veil. “Now – I forgot to introduce you. This is my friend-“

As if someone in heaven had tipped a bucket, rain pours down on the four of them. Thunder rolls through the afternoon air. 

Isabella lets out a soft intake of breath and flees into Federico’s arms, who pulls her towards the hedges for shelter. He tilts his head back with a surprised frown, his grip on Isabella tightening.

Crowley follows his example, drops falling on his glasses. “Surprising turn of the weather. I say we leg it.”

“Brilliant idea.” Aziraphale is standing next to him, pressed so close against the yew tree walls that they brush his hair. When he looks at him, their eyes meet.

Federico doesn’t exactly voice his agreement, but he pulls Isabella towards the entrance of the path that will lead them – well. Somewhere.

For a lack of a better option and since the pour isn’t lessening, Aziraphale and Crowley follow them. They move as fast as can be expected with a lady in the party. Which is to say, not very. Cool rain slips down into Crowley’s collar and he shivers. Their steps quicken somewhat, Federico steering Isabella, who holds her gloved hand in front of her face. 

When they take a sharp turn, Crowley catches sight of her profile. The veil, soaked, drips down her face, a shimmering barely-something that makes her look almost ethereal.

Taken by that marble-shimmering game of hide and seek, Crowley takes the turn a tad too sharply and his feet slip on the wet grass. Aziraphale’s hand, warm and strong, grips and lifts him before he can fall. A pause, Crowley’s shoes slip, then he finds purchase, his hand fisted in Aziraphale’s sleeve. Silk under his hand.

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale’s hand on his arm, gripping him tightly. Another on his hip, unnecessary, warm.

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Under the silk, he can almost feel his warmth.

Seconds pit-patter by. Finally they look up and – 

“Oh.”

They stand, looking at the paths in front of them, intertwining and dripping. Alone. The scent of rain fills the air, making the yew tree walls drip in vibrant green. 

“I –“ Crowley says, turning towards the direction he thinks the entrance is located. 

“What a turn of events”, Aziraphale says at the same time.

Something in the tone of his voice makes Crowley turn. The sun might be hidden behind a sky of lead, but the gold in Aziraphale still shines, still warms Crowley’s blood.

He hesitates for a moment. “Quite a sudden change, really. Miraculous, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale looks up at the sky, the pour lessening into a heavy fall. “Indeed. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of how we got here.”

It’s a cue and Crowley has played his part for quite some part by now. “We should wait it out, then. Instead of running around. We could fall. Would be a shame.”

They both look at Aziraphale’s shoes, the soft blue of his trousers. The white of his thighs.

“Wait? In the rain?”

Once more, thunder roars in the distance. Crowley shakes his head. “Well, no. But –” He looks at the hedges to his right. A path opens under his gaze. “We could try to find shelter.”

Aziraphale follows his gaze. Before he can reply, the wind picks up and they rush through the entrance, the yew trees rustling as they accustomate to their new shape. 

It doesn’t take long – a left turn and they find themselves in another clearing. In the middle they find a little pavilion, a gazebo, for them to rush under. 

Roses wrap around the pillars, pink and green on white. Crowley shakes his head a little, a rain of silver. 

Meanwhile Aziraphale hums, looking around. “This is missing – Ah, there we go.” Behind them, a bench appears. Aziraphale steps towards it, his heels clacking on the wet marble floors.

The stone is cool through the layers of Crowley’s trousers. He takes off his glasses, but before he can attempt to use his sleeve to wipe them down, Aziraphale offers a handkerchief.

It’s delicate, almost transparent, lace-trimmed. It’s also warm and smells faintly of stardust. Crowley has to keep his eyes firmly on his hands as he uses it to dry his glasses, but dares to look up as he hands it back.

In the rainy green that surrounds them, the divine brightness of Aziraphale seems all the more apparent. Rain glitters in his hair, the silk of his vest shimmers wetly.

It’s a very small bench. Crowley’s knee brushes Aziraphale’s and he clears his throat. “Well, angel. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes, likewise.” Aziraphale smiles.

Silence. The roses bop their silky heads, dripping in silver.

“Bit wet.” 

“Oh, so sorry about that.” The handkerchief, carefully folded, is tucked underneath an embroidered vest, resting against a warm heart.

“So it was you, then?” Fingertips tracing the rim of the glasses.

“Hm?” A soft hand on feathery hair, a careful touch. 

“The- never mind. Why are you here?” Running a palm over a velvet vest, brushing a rain of glittering drops off.

Aziraphale tugs at his sleeves. “Well, I’m meant to inspire Federico into taking a less active part in politics and a more active part in his family.”

“I see.” Crowley thinks of hands on velvet, gentle and steadying, of delicate fingers on rain-wet skin. Pink lips on white fingertips. “Was a good touch then.”

Aziraphale gives him a blank look.

“The rain.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale tilts his head back to watch the drops slipping from the roof of the pavilion. “Yes, thank you. And you?” Now he’s glancing at Crowley out of thee corner of his eye. “I assume some fiendish plot. If you’re trying to seduce Isabella, I have bad news. When I glanced at you across that path, the air was positively _vibrant_ with love. By the fountain, too. The whole place was dripping with it.”

Crowley feels so hot, he fears he’ll steam up his glasses with the condensing rain water. “I – no. Well, I’m here to tempt her, naturally, but not – no. I want her to develop a taste for art, actually.”

Aziraphale turns once more, this time so quickly that their thighs are pressed together. “Art? To what end?”

“Oh, disaster,” Crowley says, his hand slipping on the edge of the bench. He can’t pull back further.

“Naturally. But –“ Oh, his eyes are sparkling. Crowley’s heart gives a helpless little flutter. _”Art?”_

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “It’s a long-running plan, but I thought – well. Parmigianino, have you heard of him?”

“Oh, _yes_! I saw his self-portrait last year!” A delighted shiver goes through Aziraphale at the memory. His cheeks get a sweet little flush, rose pink. “Do you know it?”

“Well, yes, from hearsay. Can’t exactly have a look while it’s at the Vatican.” Crowley crosses his ankles, their thighs brushing once again. Through his tights, he can feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s body.

“Oh.” Aziraphale, who had leaned in so close that his lime blossoms and stardust scent was brushing over Crowley’s lips, sits back again. “Yes, of course. Well, I’ve heard it’s going to be given to Pietro Arentino soon.” His gaze brushes over Crowley’s jaw. As not to disturb the silence of the pavilion, his voice softens. “You could see it then.”

“I could. Where did you hear that?” Crowley’s voice matches Aziraphale’s, softening into something that’s almost a whisper.

“Oh, around.” Aziraphale smiles and Crowley sniffs, bites his lower lip. Silence pit-patters around them.

“Do you think they made it inside in time?” Aziraphale glances at the ceiling of the pavilion as if it were the rain filled sky. His neck is a little flushed. Rose petals.

“No.” Crowley thinks of a dripping veil. “She was soaked.”

A soft sigh. “Poor thing. Must be cold.”

A hand around a satin-shimmery waist. Gripping a velvet-clad arm. “I’m sure he’ll warm her up.”

There’s not much room on the bench and their shoulders brush as Crowley thinks of warm hands slipping on rain-cool skin. A wet shirt, transparent, gently being pulled aside. A hot mouth, kissing colour back into cold hands, cold shoulders, a soft throat. Wet hair on white sheets, fingers entwining, legs tangling. Sighs and words so soft they won’t disturb the rain tickling the windows.

Heat, hands gripping shoulders, hips. A tongue slipped into a hot mouth, lime blossoms, stardust. Soft laughter, hopefully. Sweet bruises on a white throat, possibly. 

Teeth, fingertips digging into a pale back. The rumble of thunder and the creaking of springs, the thump of a headboard. Fingers tangled in short hair, pulling. Thunder and breathless gasps.

Crowley blinks, sniffs. “I’m – It wasn’t bad to see you.”

Aziraphale’s smile is paired with a little exhale. Almost a sigh. “Yes, I’m glad we met, too.”

Even as the rain softens into a gentle whisper, neither of them makes a move to get up. They stay on the bench, forced to sit so close that now and then, their hands brush. 

Despite his nature and the rain seeping through his vest, Crowley feels warm. And even though he can’t sense love, he imagines it smells like rain on yew trees, like lime blossoms and stardust.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! I hope you had as much fun as I had writing this! Renaissance settings are just so...dear to my heart...
> 
> The usual disclaimer: I'm not a native speaker! If you see something that looks a bit odd, I'd love to know so I can correct it :)
> 
> And on other notes: [Parmigianino](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parmigianino) was an up and coming star in the early 1500s. He gifted his famed self-portrait to the pope, who then later gave it to art critic Pietro Arentino. I forgot when that was and am too tired to look it up (sorry!!!), but I like the idea that Aziraphale arranged that exchange so Crowley would be able to see this portrait! ..I wrote a paper on it this semester...thus I...have an intense love for it..
> 
> Today is day three of the [ineffable week](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/post/187313385715/in-september-i-want-to-dedicate-a-whole-week-to) \- you're welcome to join, if you'd like! Just remember to alert me so I can read your works, that would be wonderful! :') (you don#t have to or anything, I'm just curious!)
> 
> If you'd like to see a funky [moodboard](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/post/187653185950/waltz-among-the-yew-tree-walls-by-wallissa) for this story or say hi, you can come check out my [tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/)!  
And if you happened to enjoy this story, consider leaving a heart or even telling me so in a comment! :') That brightens my day so much!
> 
> Thank you and see you tomorrow!


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